


The baby and the band

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, Chandler has a mild panic attack, Chandler is a smitten goddaddy, Kent was in a band, M/M, no worse than in the show, set after season 4 but has no spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles needs a babysitter and Chandler accepts, except he has no idea how to not kill a child and enlists Kent for a night of domestic fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The baby and the band

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steviekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviekat/gifts).



Chandler has no idea what to do.

He had no idea what’s the right option, neither morally or practically.

He probably looked like a guppy, his mouth left hanging slightly open, his pupils dilated, mobile pressed to his ear. He’s thankful he’s sitting in his living room, that this hadn’t happened in the office.

“Oi. Nibs. You still there?” comes the gruff voice, tinged with hesitation.

“Oh- yes- I- yes, of course, I would be honoured, I am honoured-”

“It’s only babysitting, you do have to give ‘er back.”

“I know what babysitting is, Miles, i’m not- i’m just-”

“Yeah well, Riley’s got her own lot to deal with, and you know what Mansell’s like. Not to say I wouldn’t’ve called her godfather first, but, well, you are you and all,” Miles says, adding a sarcastic “Sir,” for good measure.

“Yes, no, definitely-” Chandler clears his throat, trying to stop the lump forming in it. “Saturday evening, you said?”

“Be round 8pm sharp to drop her off.”

“Yes, okay.” Chandler swallows, the lump only growing. “Understood. If there’s nothing else?”

“No, just that,” Miles says, the hesitation still there. “You sure about this, sir? What with your…” There’s a slight pause. “...and all?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have accepted if I didn’t understand the consequences.”

Miles sighs, (or heaves a huff of relief?) “Great. Right. 8pm Saturday. Thanks, Sir.”

“Sharp,” Chandler mimics before they exchange their good humoured goodbyes and his phone beeps to tell him Miles has hung up. Saturday. Babysitting. Babysitting his goddaughter. Taking care of an infant child without the help of the child’s parents. His iphone was still pressed to his ear, his mouth still hung. “Babysitting,” he told the empty house. “Me. Babysitting.”

He didn’t know how to babysit.

He’d done a course, of course, on how to deal with child victims, missing children, lost children and the like, had done a course on how to handle infants who’d been injured or harmed in the line of duty, had done a course on children who suffered from mental disorders, a course on children who were distressed, but-

Babysitting his goddaughter.

Babysitting an infant child.

Chandler ran the conversation through his head again.

‘I wanted to take Judy out for our anniversary, 30 years, can you believe, and the kids’ve said they’ll get friends of theirs to organise a sleepover at one of theirs,’ the DS had prologued, ‘but it’s the baby, y’know. Our last babysitter split on us, and to get a new one at short notice after the last case...’

They had just closed a case about a serial killer who’d escaped notice as an unlisted babysitter, who could only be contacted through a friend’s recommendation of how trusted she was, how reliable. She had stored spare keys from hundreds of properties over the decades, but had only made her way through five, killing parents she deemed ‘unfit as carers’  before she had been found in her apartment, swinging from the rafters.

How could Chandler ignore his first godpaternal duty? His sergeant trusted him, Ray Miles trusted him with the caretaking of his infant child. He had consented to having an infant child in his house. What was he meant to do with an infant child? He assumed Miles would bring him standard-issue babysitting materials, but what if he ran out? What if Miles forgot something? Miles would be in a rush, and he’d be nervous about his evening, forgetting something could be entirely possible.

But Judy would be there too, wouldn’t she? And they were both old hands at the whole thing, he couldn’t be so sure they wouldn’t forget anything, but they were both so experienced…

He would have to read up about it.

\---------

“Sir? Sir?” The voice had started to sound exasperated, which was how Chandler knew Kent hadn’t been standing in the doorway for long. It usually started to dip into worry at the minute mark. He snapped his head up to meet Kent’s eye.

“Something the matter?”

“Oh, no, Sir, it’s just that-” Kent looked over his shoulder and made a swatting motion with his hand. Kent’s attention returned to Chandler and he looked a couple of shades redder. “You’ve been staring at the door since lunch and, uh, I-” Kent winced, “We, were wondering if you were, uh... okay?”

“Me? Oh, yes, fine, thank you, i’m just, thinking about something. Pondering.” Chandler shrugged slightly, shooting Kent a small smile.

“Pondering, Sir?” Kent glanced back at the nearly empty whiteboards. The case they were currently solving was extremely clear-cut, and unapologetically so. They had evidence up the wazoo, witnesses by the barrel and prints that actually matched. “About what?”

Chandler gulped, eyes darting to the door, before looking back at Kent. It was friday, gone lunch by Kent’s remark, and he didn’t suppose the police library nor archives held anything helpful on solving his problem. He licked his lips. Mansell didn’t have children, despite the constant relationships, Riley whilst helpful would laugh him into oblivion for simply asking, but Kent…

“Could you close the door, please?” Chandler asked, and Kent looked like he was about to leap out of his skin. He supposed that would be normal, had Chandler’s first DI, also known for his lack of opening up, suggested he lock the door, Chandler would’ve jumped too. He watched Kent press the door shut and take a couple of steps further into the room.

“Sir?” Kent asked as Chandler considered him for a moment.

“Kent-” Chandler dropped his eyes to his hands, clasped on his desk. He sighed. He was being ridiculous. “What-” Chandler started, before stalling. “You... you’re a young man.”

Kent cocked his head, obviously expecting more from the sentence and confused as to why there wasn’t. “Uh, yes, Sir?”

“Have you had- have you- Do you have any experience with babysitting?” Chandler finally managed to ask.

Kent looked ready to laugh, judging by the way he deflated, his lips stretching into a wide grin. “Yes, Sir, a little in my poor student days. May I ask why?” He paused, frowned, hands straightening his tie a little. “I didn’t think you had children, Sir.”

“Me? No, no, no, not my- well, not my area, I’m afraid,” Chandler snorted, dropping his eyes to his desk so that he could straighten his tub of tiger balm on his desk just that slight bit. “I was asked by Miles-” he glanced at where Miles would be sitting behind the frosted glass. “To take care of his daughter during his and Judy’s anniversary, but I, well, I have no previous experience in doing so, and I don’t want-” Chandler raised his eyes to meet Kent’s. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen.”

Kent nodded, slowly, before a small smile played at his lips. “It’s easy as, Sir. It’s only hours of listening to incessant shrieking, having various unsavoury body fluids spewed down you and your furniture, sharp objects thrown at your face, and constantly worrying what is or isn’t harmful for a child.”

Chandler gulped. He could feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead, and suddenly his collar felt too tight. He didn’t move to either loosen collar or wipe the sweat, but he could see Kent had watched his adam’s apple bob. “Oh.”

Kent beamed, eyes crinkling. “I’m kidding, Sir,” he laughed, obviously amused by Chandler’s monosyllabic reply. “Well, kind of anyway. When are you on duty?”

“Saturday,” Chandler replied, not trusting such a vague answer. “Eight sharp, apparently.”

Kent nodded, smile still lingering, arms folding. “I can help, if you’d like.”

“If your help is nearly as helpful as your advice,” Chandler says, squinting slightly.

“Was that a joke, Sir?” Kent asked, laughing again. It was nice to see such a delighted expression in the office again. Kent had seemed darker, somehow, recently, but the reemergence of smiles made Chandler’s heart flutter slightly. This was the bouncy DC making a reappearance.

“I thought you liked me, DC Kent. I hadn’t written you down as sadistic,” Chandler retaliated, eyebrow raising.

Kent spluttered, choking on his own spit. “...two jokes in one breath, Sir, that’s-” Kent shook his head as if banishing the thought, cheeks heated. “The offer stands, Sir,” he said, regaining himself but obviously wanting to move away from the topic.

“I- I wouldn’t want to impinge on your weekend, Kent, some advice would be fine.”

Kent smiled, self-deprecating. “I would rather spend my saturday evening helping you, Sir, than arguing over the remote with my housemates. Besides, Stevie always wins, and she always puts on some cruddy cop drama.”

Chandler hummed for a while longer, but really, he needed help, and Kent was offering his services willingingly. “I can’t offer you much more than dinner and company in return?”

“That’s perfect for me, Sir,” Kent all but grinned. “I’m still living out my uni days, see a sign for free food and i’ve sold my soul.”

“Perfect,” Chandler repeated. He readjusted his hands. “Thank you, Kent.”

“No problem. Did you want me to arrive early or late? Don’t want Sarge thinking you’re not capable as a godparent.”

Chandler shook his head, couldn’t help Kent’s infectious smile spreading onto his own face. How could anyone think of something so considerate and- disarmingly kind? “Early, if you would, I feel as if I might drop her if left alone with her for longer than a minute.”

“Alright Sir,” Kent said, eyes boring holes in the floor, as if that could hide his smile. “Early it is.” He nodded at the floor, then nodded at Chandler. “I should- I’m going to file a report,” he said, then he left the room. Chandler was sure he could hear someone wolf-whistle and a couple of shouted profanities, but A, he was still reeling from Kent’s unsuspecting character change, and B, it was most likely Mansell and Riley, and when were they not acting the rabble stereotype.

\-----

“And you’re sure this is everything?” Chandler asked for what must’ve been the thirtieth time that minute.

“Joseph,” Judy calmed, placing a soft hand on his wrist. “You’ll do wonderfully.” She smiled at him and Chandler felt his heart return to normalcy. Miles was a lucky man, that much was obvious. She smiled at him, bouncing her daughter in her arms. “Okay?”

Chandler nodded, not taking his eyes off of the swaddled body. The baby hadn’t made a peep yet, but he couldn’t rely on the precedent, the child could very easily dissolve into tears the second the exchange was made. He formed his hands into the pre-specified position and waited for Judy to rest the child in his arms.

“There we are,” Miles cooed, his voice soft as he dissolved into baby-talk. “Who’s a good girl.”

“Oh,” Chandler said, softly, feeling the girl shift in his arms but otherwise not make a sound. She was so small. It was easy to forget how small humans could be. How precious life was. “Oh,” he said again, at a loss for words.

“A natural, what did I tell ya.” Miles bumped his fist against Chandler’s arm, lightly so as to not disturb the baby, his other arm winding around Judy’s back. The three of them stood for a while, watching the baby chase dreams in her head, until Chandler remembered where they were. “Oh, you’ll be late!”

The Miles’ jolted, husband pulling up his sleeve to check the watch, wife making sure the baby hadn’t been disturbed. Both satisfied, they smiled at Chandler with eerie synchronicity. “Thank you, Joseph. We’ll try not to be later than midnight.”

“We know how you like your beauty sleep,” Miles added, smile descending into smirk. “And say hi to Kent for me. C’mon, Judy, let’s run before the waterworks leak.” Judy laughed and followed Miles out of the door, closing it in Chandler’s face.

“So much for hiding my presence,” Kent called from the kitchen.

Chandler snorted. He should’ve known Miles would find out sooner rather than later. “Could you help me with the bags?” he called back, rocking the baby.

The baby. The baby girl. The infant child. The newest addition to the Miles family. Baby Miles. His goddaughter. His goddaughter, infant child of Judy and Ray Miles.

...shit. He gulped, closed his eyes, scanning every memory of any conversations relating to the girl. He couldn’t remember her name. He didn’t know his goddaughter’s name. She was so often referred to as ‘the baby’, or any form of this, the last time he’d heard her name said out loud must have been at the Christening just over a year ago.

“You okay, Sir?” Kent asked from too near, and Chandler jolted into alertness to find Kent at his feet, picking up the bags of baby-goods. “Has she peed on you already?” Kent asked, smiling. He’d already advised Chandler to change out of his crisp white dress shirt and into an old t-shirt from the bottom of the wardrobe.

“No,” Chandler said defensively, walking through the hall and into his livingroom. “I was just… pondering. Again.”

“Riiiight,” Kent said, depositing the bags on the coffee table. “Tea, Sir?”

“Joe,” Chandler corrected. “You can call me Joe, and the tea is on the top right shelf of the cupboard. Kent nodded and walked across the open expanse of room until he hit the corner that ended in kitchen. The house was large, empty, the bottom floor all one rectangular room, the only door leading to a hallway that ended in stairs one end and the entrance the other.

The kitchen was any house-hunter’s wet dream, recently renovated and shiny, containing all of the latest gizmos and gadgets. Chandler had already explained how to work the boiling water tap, a nozzle that took less than a second to splurt boiling hot water out of its faucet, without having to rely on a kettle.

The only problem was, Kent was rather shorter than Chandler, and top-right meant just out of reach for him. He looked over his shoulder at where his enamoured DI was petting the child and sighed. He tried, he really did, even going to far as to jump (quietly and discreetly), aiming his hand so as to swat down a box, but without standing on something, this wasn’t going to happen. And he wasn’t about to stand on any of Chandler’s furniture.

“Uhm, Sir?” Kent asked, trying once again to stretch for the tea, as if the third time would charm his arm longer. He glanced over at the blond, but he was making little faces at the baby, which was really just obscenely cute. And here Kent was, stretching just that little bit too much so that his t-shirt rode up and revealed that little triangle of skin, in the pose many a lover had cited as their ruin. He grinned. Reason seven hundred and four why DI Chandler was unexpected. “Joe?” He tried again, louder this time.

Chandler looked up this time, the use of the first name enticing him out of his revelry. “Yes? Sorry, how can I help?”

“The uh, tea, Sir.” Kent pretended to reach for it again, though not giving it his all. “Didn’t want to stand on your furniture or anything.”

“Oh, oh, thanks, okay, I’ll just-” Chandler padded through to the kitchen, bouncing his charge as he went, and walking as if even the wind could harm her. “Would you like to hold her?” he asked as he approached.

Kent looked between the child and the tea, then at the chair. If he were to refuse, Chandler wouldn’t be able to reach for the tea, and no doubt he’d have an internal conflict as to whether he could allow Kent to sit on his countertop. But she had hated him last time, and she was so quiet now…

Chandler chuckled, drifting closer. “She won’t bite you,” he said, noticing Kent’s impending panic. He quirked his eyebrows at Kent’s rolled eyes. “I won’t force you if you’re not comfortable.”

Kent sighed, closed his eyes and positioned his arms. He nodded when Chandler asked if he was ready, and a too-heavy, too-light weight was shifted into his grip. “You have her?” Chandler asked, and Kent secured her, resuming the bouncing Chandler had been keeping up. He nodded and cracked open his eyes, looking down at her.

He all but melted.

He hadn’t come away from the disastrous first meeting entirely favourable of the kid, the entirely unattractive wailing she’d unleashed into his eardrums still painful the next morning, but like this, breathing softly, eyes and mouth twitching, buried in soft blue cotton, he could see why everyone had fallen in love with her. He was half-way gone already.

“Is green tea okay?” Kent barely registered the question, nodding slowly and biting his bottom lip.

She was so- small… a bit of fabric fell into her face from his bouncing and Kent moved it away, only to have his finger apprehended by tiny fingers that wrapped around his. “Oh no,” he whispered, “They’re so small.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so breathless, but his voice couldn’t have raised any louder if he’d tried. Her fingers were tiny and pink but strong, had a grip like vice, and her fingernails were smaller than peas. “Look at her fingers,” he breathed as he felt Chandler come up behind him. “Look, Sir, they’re like, like… they’re…” Kent didn’t know how to finish his sentence so he didn’t, deciding to look up at Chandler instead.

Chandler was in a conundrum. There were two intensely adorable people in his kitchen, and one was freaking out about the other. Baby Miles had made his heart feel soft, his breathing calm, but Kent’s reaction was threatening to have the opposite effect. His breath hitched, his heart pounded. He met Kent’s searching, lit-up eyes and they stood, staring at one another with dopey smiles. God, Chandler couldn’t remember ever feeling this surrounded by affection. He nearly forgot about the teas in his hands until one cup twisted slightly and the ceramic burnt his skin, punching him out of the gaze.

“Tea,” he said, stupidly, planting both cups on the countertop. He took a teaspoon from its drawer, removed the strainers holding the loose-leaf teas and threw the contents of them into the bin before washing strainers, teaspoon and hands. When he looked back, Kent had readjusted himself so that the baby could hold his finger more comfortably, and his attention was wholeheartedly hers.

Chandler picked up the two cups and moved towards the living room. “Sofa?” he asked, and Kent nodded, following him and sitting down next to Chandler on the black leather, never stopping the back and forth motion.

While Kent was distracted with her, Chandler took the opportunity to empty the bags onto the coffee table. There were a couple of baby bottles, some clothes, blankets, toys, muslins, nappies, wipes, creams of various descriptions, tissues and bibs, as well as a timetable of when to feed her. Chandler arranged the piles on the table, refolding the blanket and clothes, adjusting the unopened pack of diapers, twisting the baby bottles and formula and creams so that they all faced towards him. Next to it all, he put his jar of tiger balm.

“Oh, uh, Sir?” Chandler looked up from his rows of goods. “I- I think you’re going to need to put the tiger balm in another room, just in case. And probably wash any off of you, if you have it on.”  Kent looked down at the baby. “It’s a heat-rub, right? Babies are sensitive to those kind of things, and she’s probably going to rub against your skin at some point. Plus,” Kent added, “It’s a small jar, and they like putting anything that size in their mouths.”

Chandler’s reaction was almost immediate, grabbing the jar off the table as if it were a bomb and backing away with it. “Should I shower, do you think?”

“Not unless you lather yourself with it,” Kent laughed, dimples deepening. “Wash with warm water and soap, I’d say.”  

Chandler nodded, taking deep breaths, and headed towards the stairs, disappearing up into the bathroom. Kent heard the sound of taps turning on. He could tell the DI would be up there cleaning himself for far longer than was necessary, and he was suddenly hit by a wave of worry. What if she woke up and he couldn’t calm her? What if Chandler had an attack, his disorder set off by the new necessity of cleanliness? His shoulders tensed, a suddenly too-heavy weight resting upon them.

Kent estimated Chandler had been upstairs for more than half an hour, and he was starting to panic slightly. The girl had thankfully not woken from her slumber, (a rare occurrence if Miles was to be believed,) but it was nearing nine and Kent’s stomach was starting to growl treacherously. Any longer and the sound wouldn’t just be unbearable for his own ears, but for hers too. He shot a desperate glance at the door that would take him to the stairs, but finally, finally, the taps dripped to a stop and the house was once again washed over with silence. There were a couple of heavy steps, a silence, then the door opened and a couple of minutes later, Chandler emerged.

“You changed, Sir,” Kent observed. Chandler was wearing a black t-shirt now, as far as he could tell from his limited turning-potential, view obstructed by the back of the sofa. “...did you have a shower?”

“I uh, I didn’t know whether the balm might have gotten in my hair, and I needed a shower anyway, and I happened to spill something down my shirt, and…”

“You needn’t explain yourself, Sir,” Kent said, smiling to himself and hiding it by ducking down towards the baby. “Don’t worry.”

Chandler released a held breath and came to sit down besides them again, exuding shower-warmth and the smell of shampoo and soap. “Joe,” he said, softly. “It’s strange hearing you call me ‘sir’ whilst holding my goddaughter.”

“Oh,” Kent said, cheeks flushing, and avoiding looking at Chandler. “Yeah, sorry, it’s- it’s just weird calling you Joe.” He stroked the baby’s forehead, this time avoiding the death grip that he had slipped out of in the last quarter hour. “You can call me Em if you want.” He didn’t look away from her, keeping himself busy. “Or Emerson, if Em’s too weird, it’s just that that’s what Riley calls me, and my sister, and parents and stuff, so i’m more used to ‘Em’ when i’m not Kent.”

“Em it is then,” Chandler laughed, “unless you want to remain as Kent.”

“I’d actually prefer to be called Superman, but what can you do, secret identities and all.” Kent’s adopted cocky voice was only ruined by the large grumbling that erupted from his stomach.

“Even your body is ashamed of you,” Chandler grinned, pushing himself up and towards the kitchen. “I am afraid i’ve been a terrible host, leaving my guest to starve. Will you choose poison or?”

“I’ll have what you have, S- Joe.” Kent looked up to watch Chandler’s back, then again when he heard the fridge open.

“I’m afraid I’ll only be having orange juice, but I do have an open bottle if you like red. Pinot Noir.”

“Orange juice is fine,” Kent said, unable to contain his smile. No drinking around the baby, he could hear Chandler saying to himself in his mind’s eye. “I take it it complements the meal, waiter?” He dropped his eyes so he didn’t see Chandler’s half-offended snort.

“I’m sure many proud Italians eat their Puttanesca with Waitrose essential orange juice,” he heard Chandler say as a chopping board hit the counter.

“Waitrose Essential?” Kent repeated, mock shocked. “I’m almost ashamed to know you.” There was a silence and he looked up to see Chandler frozen, back to him. “You can’t decide if i’m criticising you for being too posh or too common, can you.”

“Would it be oh so bourgeois to admit that I might be struggling slightly?”

“Make your puttanesca, Joe,” Kent laughed, quieting after his first outburst when the baby flinched. “When’s her first meal?”

“Ten, apparently.”

Kent hummed, relaxing into the leather. Now that it had warmed with his body heat, the material had become soft and pliable, the cushions surrounding him the softest he’d ever felt.

“You thinking about joining her?” Kent sat up, blinking, not realising he’d been so near sleep.

“Shut up,” he said, before realising what he’d said, his eyes widening. “I mean- Sir, sorry, shit.” No matter how off duty they were, telling his DI to shut up so soon after reaching the first name basis must be bad.

Chandler hadn’t moved from the hob, but Kent could see his shoulders were still relaxed underneath the shirt. “It’s that Mansell, isn’t it,” Chandler shook his head, faux disappointment in his voice. “I should have known he’d get to you eventually with his insubordination.”

“Yes, Sir,” Kent played along, “He and Riley have been displaying frankly horrendous practices in the workplace. I think they should be on drink duty for at least a month.”

“A month? DC Kent, you told me to ‘shut up’, that’s at least a month each, as far as i’m concerned.”

Kent ducked his head, trying to decide whether to laugh or feel embarrassed by his outburst. Before he could decide, a waft of smell came from the kitchen, and Kent felt all but faint just smelling it. “That smells so good.” The baby was starting to get restless, so Kent stood and went to walk around the room in the hopes the lulling motion would soothe her.

“I hope it tastes okay. I’ve not cooked for a guest for a long time.”

“Beats Domino’s and leftover stir fry.”

“You cook?” Chandler asked, putting spaghetti into a pan.

“Hardly. My housemates cook in batches and I warm up whatever’s left.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound… healthy, Emerson.”

“I get my five a day, have my whole wheat and salmon sandwich at lunch, drink enough water.” Kent started his second lap of the room. “I’m sure a grown man isn’t supposed to survive on a 5 piece sushi-set, but I’ve not complained about your diet.”

“I suppose I can give you that,” Chandler says the next time Kent wanders close enough. Chandler turned, the sauce summering and the pasta at a roiling boil, crossing his arms and smiling at Kent. “You’re getting good.”

“It’s easier being handed her from you, than from Mansell. She could probably smell the danger from him.” Kent’s arms were getting kind of weary now, though. She may be small and fragile, but man did this constant holding make his arms feel like lead. “Do you mind if we switch?” he asked. “I can set the table and stir, if you like.”

“Yes, of course! I should have asked sooner.” Chandler swept in this time, getting more confident, and as soon as Kent let go, he let himself bounce on the spot, shaking out his joints.

“We could probably put her in her cot now, since we’re  going to eat soon anyway,” Kent said, moving to make the pop-up cot. The thing was like a mini tent, but after years of practice, Kent was a dab hand at it. He put in clean sheets, blankets etcetera, as well as a couple of the kid’s favourite toys, then moved the whole thing to next to the dining table, on the floor between Kent and Chandler’s set seats.

Baby bedded and settled, Chandler plated and they sat down, orange juice on coasters and placemats even. “This is when I make a complete arse of myself,” Kent grinned, looking from red pasta to white t-shirt. If i’d known I’d have worn black.”

“You’re very welcome to borrow something of mine, if you’d like?” Chandler wasn’t sure whether he’d prefer seeing the red spots on Kent’s white or on his own black.

“Uh, no, it’s okay, thanks for the offer though.” Kent took a sip of his orange juice, waiting for Chandler to start. “Lesson one of inviting guests around, don’t make spaghetti. Someone’s bound to make a fool of themselves.”

“I make a positively horrendous host,” Chandler admitted, picking up fork and spoon, Kent mimicking him. “All that fast tracking and fancy dining, and to think none of it rubbed off on me.” He allowed his features to remain contemplative until he cracked, glancing up at Kent.

“You’re letting the son of a radiator company owner teach you about dining etiquette, Joe, really, if word ever got out…” Kent’s expression was schooled for only slightly longer before he cracked too.

\---

The baby woke up soon before she was due to be fed, which was a blessing to the two men, who’d been anxious about having to wake her up themselves. The feeling of being blessed lasted all of thirty seconds, however, when they realised they now had a screaming child to quieten. Kent being nearest, he dived for her, picking her up and resting her against his neck, bouncing and hushing her. “Aw, poor girl, you’re hungry huh? Yes, yes, I know, your silly goddaddy hasn’t fed you yet, he’s such a bad host, isn’t he, there there, shhhh, it’s okay, now.” Kent grinned at Chandler as he went to fetch the tub of formula and a bottle.

It didn’t surprise Kent that Chandler was exact with sterilising the bottle and his hands, as well as his workspace, then with pouring the exact amount of boiling water into the bottle. He levelled a scoop of the formula off with a (sterilised) knife, poured it into the liquid and shook it as if performing a lab experiment.

As they waited for the mixture to cool, Kent started to hum, hoping that might soften the baby’s wailing. “I recognise the song,” Chandler murmured, as if trying not to interrupt, but annoyed that he couldn’t place it.

“Doubt it,” Kent shrugged with a quirk of his lips. “Just something I made up.” Kent lifted the baby up in front of his face, and pouted. “Hey now, you’re still going to make that noise when you’ve got uncle Em’s humming?”  

Chandler rested against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure she just got louder.”

“Meet Joe,” Kent sung to the same tune, holding the baby up to face Chandler. “He’s an ordinary kid with a big nose,” Kent bapped the baby’s nose, who gurgled slightly, “Heavy on his feet, so he walks on his tiptoes....” Kent flushed and returned to humming, not wanting to continue with his lyrics.

“You have a nice voice. You sing?” Chandler knew next to nothing about Kent, and most of what he did know came from this evening. His parents were radiator salespersons, he lived with three housemates, they all babied him and fed him and were practically siblings, Kent had babysat during university to help with food costs, and that he could sing.

“Uh, yeah, used to, anyway.” Kent avoided meeting Chandler’s eye, one side of his lip pulling into a wry smile. “Had a band and everything. Indie rap rock, fronted and played lead guitar.”  

“Ahh, explains the dive-bar look.” Riley and Mansell had managed to ‘fit in’, with their mussed hair and black clothes, and Norroy had obviously dressed for the occasion, but Kent had looked like he’d seriously belonged in the place, band shirt, skinny jeans and subtle make-up pulling the look together.

“Trust me, I’ve looked worse,” Kent said, eyes raising skywards. “You saw me in gel, at uni I had hair out here,” he used one hand to gesture a hand-span from his head, “Trust me, not a pretty sight.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me about uni days. I wasn’t particularly… hip.”

“Lemme guess, Oxbridge button-ups and cashmere jumpers until jumping into tuxes and bowties for the evening meal?”

“Oooh yes. The picture of British dandyism.”

“How do I break it to you that I’m not surprised?” The baby had stopped crying now, but still sniffled occasionally, threatening to spill tears at the slightest provocation.

Chandler exhaled a short huff of air from his nose, but couldn’t really argue, so turned to address the milk instead. He put a hand against the bottle. Turned away from Kent, he couldn’t see Chandler’s expression. “You have to put a drop on your hand,” Kent advised. “To see what the temperature is.”

“Would you mind? I- I have a thing about milk.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Kent wondered if that was the reason behind Chandler’s green-tea-only policy, so that nobody could accidentally put milk in his black tea. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen a carton of milk in the fridge when he’d been putting the leftovers from dinner back in there. He’d done some rudimentary research on OCD, just enough not to cause his DI any extra stress, and had seen something about wariness around milk, not being able to tell if it was off or not, but he’d not flagged it as important until now. If that was the case, to have this admitted to him was pretty… important. Trusting.

They swapped again and Kent splurted a bit of milk onto his wrist. Finding it of good temperature, he handed it to Chandler, who moved back towards the sofas, where a bib lay ready for the job. Bib on and towel laid out on the furniture, he offered the bottle to the baby.

“This is going eerily well.” Kent picked up and played with one of the toys left on the table, addressing his concerns to its dead-eyed stare. “By now there’s usually a couple hundred quid’s worth of property damage, several changed shirts and at least two arguments.”

“...” Chandler gulped.

“Did I jinx it?”

“I think she might have just spent a penny, yes.”

“Would you like me to?”

“Please,” Chandler all but begged, separating baby from her bottle and handing former to Kent.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a wet patch on you,” Kent calmed, bringing baby to his nose. “Let’s open you up just in case, shall we? Can you grab the changing board?”

The changing of the first nappy did not go as smoothly as Kent had hoped. He had wanted to demonstrate how easy, clean and quick the process could be, so that he might get Chandler do to it once in the evening, to build his confidence for the next time he was invited to babysit, but after his first attempt, he doubted Chandler would so much as hold the child again, let alone change her nappy.

“We wipe from front to back, okay?” Chandler nodded, looking like he was going to be sick. “We uhm, don’t want to spread the… mess at the back to the… vaginal area?” Chandler had gone a rather queasy shade of green and eyed the door. “...I can finish up here, Sir, if you wanted to wait outside.”

Chandler nodded quickly and left the bathroom, closing the door and leaning heavily on it. He took a couple of deep breaths, now that the air didn’t smell of feces, and watched his hands. He hadn’t touched her, but just being in her vicinity made him feel…

He spared a glance at the door before near jumping down the steps, two at a time to get to the kitchen sink. He used a sheet of kitchen paper to open the cupboard below the sink and remove his bottle of disinfectant, then tore off a new sheet to turn on the taps and wash his hands with first soap, then the antibac, over and over and over-

He startled at the hand on his back. “Hey.” Chandler let the water run over his hands, but didn’t turn of the taps. The hand continued running small circles on his back. “I put Charlie in the cot.”

Chandler frowned, the sound of running water adding to his confusion. He tried to focus on the motion and the heat rubbing in concise, regular motions. “Charlie?”

“Your goddaughter, Charlie.” Chandler heard Kent gulp. “Do you know where you are?” He nodded and Kent’s movements slowed. “Would you like me to turn off the taps?” Chandler nodded again and so Kent did, making sure not to make any quick motions.

“I’m okay,” Chandler said, sniffing slightly. He could hear his own voice, could hear how quiet it was. He reached for the hand towel hanging just off to the side and patted his hands dry. “I’m sorry.” He took another calming breath before turning to Kent and-

“Kent?” he choked, surprise bumping him against the edge of the sink.

“Yeah, uhm, she, uh, apparently she wasn’t finished.” Kent crossed his arms against his naked chest, looking at a suddenly very interesting cupboard just to Chandler’s right. “Can I use your shower? And borrow a shirt?”

Chandler nodded, not knowing where to look himself and edging around Kent to escape upstairs. “I’ll- find you a towel. And a clean, uhm, change, do you need trousers?”

“No, just uh, only managed the top half. Quite the aim.” Chandler’s face was an expression of raw confusion and Kent replied with one of pain. “Don’t ask,” he said with a small sigh.

“The shower’s just through there,” Chandler pointed, taking a couple of towels out of the boiler room. “Its just on/off, but if you could… keep the temperature setting the same, please? I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Joe. Thank you.” Chandler gave him an apologetic smile as he handed over the towels. “I’ll leave a shirt on the bed for you.”

\---

Out of everything, every piece of clothing in the world, this was not what Kent was expecting. He held the black shirt out in front of him and tried to convince himself he was dreaming. He’d probably fallen asleep in the shower, and this was a dream. Or he was actually asleep at his desk and he hadn’t actually been in DI Joe Chandler’s bedroom holding up a t-shirt with his uni band’s logo printed on it. Maybe Chandler had rooted through Kent’s bag for his spare? But Kent was sure his own shirt was his size, not a men’s large, and his one had faded through use, the white printing cracked and peeled from hundreds of laundry days. This one looked barely worn.

He pulled it on and it smelt of Chandler’s shirts. It was two sizes baggy on him but it was definitely his band’s logo. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror and ‘Colour of Bone’ looked back. Did Chandler…. know? He couldn’t do, right? Where had he gotten this shirt from? They’d only done gigs up in Coventry in their time, hadn’t sold their merch online or anything, and that was before you considered the fact that DI Chandler didn’t ‘go in’ for genres like Indie rock rap.  

Unless Riley had managed to pinch a few back in the day? Or maybe Mansell had found out and had pulled some kind of elaborate trick on Chandler that he expected to come to fruition the next time they were undercover? But if so, he’d have definitely been under Riley or Mansell’s fire in the office, and he hadn’t heard either of them so much as hum a song from the radio, let alone sing his own lyrics at him.

So why?

Hair still damp, he plastered his fringe back so it didn’t get in his eyes and decided he might as well ask, rather than slowly drive himself mad with questions.

\----

“You have more t-shirts that I’d put you down for, Sir.” Kent pulled the material out as indication when Chandler looked up. “I shouldn’t have put money on the bet I had with Mansell.”

“I may wear professional clothing at work, but I hardly sleep in a three-piece.”

“Damn, another lost bet,” Kent huffed, trying for nonchalance. He liked serious Chandler, of course, but he was definitely enjoying the company of jokey Chandler a lot more than was strictly appropriate.

“Remind me never to take you gambling.” Chandler had put on some music, soft and classical, though Kent couldn’t place the melody.

“I thought i’d one the ‘Chander’s favourite music’ bet too, but now i’m conflicted.” Kent flopped down on the sofa, habitually checking if Charlie was sleeping peacefully on the floor between their feet.

“You didn’t bet on my liking Handel?” Chandler raised an eyebrow, nodding at the CD player resting on the coffee table.

“Handel, yes, but ‘Colour of Bone’, not quite.” Kent picked at the lettering. “I think Riley had her money on ‘something unexpected like white boy rap.’”

“Oh, uh,” Chandler scratched at the back of his neck, ears flushing pink. “I was visiting an old university friend at his home in Leamington, up near Warwick, and he dragged me to a local band night, at a bar, the Kasbah, I think.  Afraid to say I might have crushed slightly on one of the singers. Crushed enough to buy a t-shirt, but not nearly confident enough to have asked them if they wanted a pint.”

Chandler chuckled at Kent’s expression of complete consternation. “Shocking I know, but your DI was once young enough to be infatuated by the bohemian romance.”

“You should have asked him,” Kent rushed, coming to his senses. Or not coming to his senses, apparently. Would this be considered flirting? Surely not if Chandler didn’t know, right? Chandler had had a drunk infatuation with a singer in a band nearly ten years ago, not with Kent himself.

“Perhaps,” Chandler agreed, expression the typical middle-aged retrospective. “He was very attractive. Nice voice, though I didn’t really understand what he was saying, with my limited foray into rap… and his hair was fascinating, curls like yours,” Chandler enthused, fond smile on his face. Then he paused, both mentally and physically. “...though slightly longer…” he said slowly, then winced. “I have the feeling i’ve just made a complete tit of myself.”

“... I have no idea what you mean,” Kent said in a tone that could only imply confirmation.

“Oh god,” Chandler plunged his face in his hands, trying to wish away the colour rising in his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

Kent was equally busy looking in the opposite direction, trying to calm his grin. “Small world, Sir?” he managed.

“Please don’t call me ‘sir’ after I’ve just admitted something like that, Emerson, I might spontaneously combust.” He peeked out from beneath his hands, pleading mercy.

“I’m just glad it was you, not Mansell or Miles?” Kent bit his lip, eyes darting to check Chandler’s face, but meeting his eye instead, and they both looked away, guilty for sneaking looks.

“This is extremely embarrassing. I apologise profusely. I can assure you I would never have… if I had… dear lord, I gave you your own merchandise to wear, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s- I mean, I can’t- I don’t blame you for it- for not knowing, not for, you know,” Kent scrubbed a hand through his still-drying hair, then wiped the excess moisture on his jeans. “My hair was awful.” Chandler had found a very distracting spot to stare at and Kent wondered if the older man was still capable of speech.

“I wrote a song about someone called Joe,” Kent said with dawning horror. “I remembered earlier, but I was too pissed to remember who Joe was at the time.” His eyes widened and man, the room was getting so hot. “I wrote it because he complimented my hair at our gig and bought a shirt when nobody else did.”

“Meet Joe,” Kent sung, voice cracking slightly. “He’s an ordinary kid with a big nose, heavy on his feet, so he walks on his tip-toes. He found a lover, he’s never felt better, with his head in the cloud but he’s under the weather.” Kent wanted to find a rock to crawl under. Of course he’d written a self-insert song about his DI, of course he had. Of all the fish in the sea, he’d crushed on Joseph Chandler twice without realising.  

Chandler licked his lips, then cleared his throat. “It does suit you more, short.”

God, Kent was getting more and more flustered by the second. “I- thank you? I like- I mean- Your hair- is- nice too- suits you.” And he couldn’t stop smiling at the compliment either, which wasn’t going to help when he eventually had to deny he had ever harboured a crush on him.

The two sat and stewed in their own embarrassment until they were saved by the sound of a whine, which didn’t take long to twist into a wail. They shot sympathetic looks at one another, red-faced sheepishness temporarily forgotten.

“What’ wrong now, Charlie, hmmm?” Kent reached for the girl just as Chandler did and they did an awkward dance of who would pick her up until Kent dived down the cot, needing something to cover his face anyway. “Hey baby, what’s wrong? Was your goddaddy too embarrassing for you? Yeah, I bet he was, that’s why you’re so sad, hm? Because you want to distract your Uncle Em from his silliness?”

Kent grinned, Chandler snorted, it was becoming natural between them. “Or maybe,” Kent bounced, “It’s because you’re fed up of your Em’s hedging, hmm?” He said, as if fully addressing the baby, who really didn’t give a shit about him and continued her crying undeterred. “Are you getting annoyed at Uncle Em’s trying to act cool around his part-time crush, part-time boss?”

Kent snuck a glimpse of Chandler from behind the baby he was holding up in front of his face. Chandler looked…he looked like a deer in the headlights. Or, more like he’d just had an epiphany, but couldn’t quite reconcile what he’d just experienced with his current state. “Emerson?”

Chandler’s eyes were humorously wide, and Kent’s fearful glance returned to the child. “What do you think, Charlie? Did your Uncle Em just ruin his entire career because of his stupid mouth?” Charlie carried on, oblivious at being used as Kent’s shield. “There, there, me too, kid, me too.” He returned her to his shoulder, patting her on her back.

“Emerson, I-”

“SHIT- FUCk- shit, stop swearing, ow, owowow, ow, Charlie, let go, help, shit, help she has my hair,” there were pinprick tears in Kent’s eyes as tiny hands yanked at the curls to the side of his head. He tried to alleviate the pressure by following her grip, but she kept pulling. “Joe, Joe, quick,” he bit his lip, trying to stop another curse spilling from his mouth and directly into the girl’s ear.

“Are you laughing at me?!” Chandler was bent over on the sofa, mid-laughing fit and Kent couldn’t believe it. “Joe! She’s going to tear it out, help!” he pleaded.

Chandler finally relented, tears in his own eyes, hand coming to rest on the back of Kent’s head, smoothing over Charlie’s hand. When that didn’t get her to stop, he used one hand to hold the root of the lock and gently pry her grasp open. “Hey Charlie, you’re going to have to let go soon or i’m going to get rather jealous…I’m starting to feel rather protective of our Emerson’s hair.”

“Ema- emasun-”

Kent and Chandler froze, hair forgotten.

“Charlie?” Kent asked, racking his brain for child speech-development and coming up short. He gulped. “What was that?”

“Ema,” Charlie whined, “Mama, Ema,”

“You want your mama?” Chandler asked, fingers still curled in Kent’s hair but flexing now, trying to ground himself.

“Mama,” Charlie agreed, babbling about something until she slapped Chandler’s hands awat from her vicinity.

“Did you know she could talk?” Kent  whispered, as if he wouldn’t be overheard by the girl whose ear was practically resting on his lips. He watched Chandler shake his head and a fear descended on both of them. She could have picked up anything from their conversation. What if she parroted something when her parents returned? Kent guessed she must have gained her energy from her too-calm rest, because now she pounded at him, unleashing full terror on his chest and neck. “Hey, Charlie, mummy will be home soon, okay?”

If anything, this only made her louder and squirm harder, and it was getting hard for Kent to keep her in his arms. He nearly lost grip of her, but Chandler caught her, tangling himself in the mess of limbs. When they’d managed to secure her in their arms, they both took stock of their sorry state: concentration, worry and panic suddenly melting through proximity to shy grins and breathing the same air, Charlie coming to a heavy-lidded, yawning rest in the warmth between their bodies.

Kent searched between Chandler’s eyes and Chandler’s smile warmed. Then he dipped closer to press a quick kiss on Kent’s lips, feeling the slightly chapped skin on his own. Kent felt nearly giddy at the gesture, his brain trying to send various ‘this is bad, he’s your boss’ messages, but blocking them out before they could reach any muscle. Instead, Kent reached forwards, eyes fluttering closed, encouraging a second kiss, a request Chandler was more than happy to comply with.

The kiss was over as quickly as the first, dry and soft and warm and Kent smiled into Chandler’s quirked lips. “Hey,” he breathed, with a lack of anything else to say.

“Was that okay?” Chandler asked, equally as breathy.

“More than,” Kent positively beamed, shyness directing his eyes to the space between them, but pressing closer. “Was… is this okay for you?”

In lieu of a reply, Chandler pressed a kiss to Kent’s cheek. “I adore you.”

“How can you just say that.” Kent’s heart threatened to give out, mind racing with attempts at replies that could be befitting, but drawing a blank. He licked his lips and went for a third kiss, longer, deeper, enough to make him feel weak at the knees with happiness. Somehow Chandler managed to slip one of his hands out of the tangle without unsettling Charlie, lifting it up to run through Kent’s hair as they kissed. Kent laughed, pulling back for a moment. “This is about seven hundred kinds of inappropriate.”

“It is, isn’t it,” Chandler snorted, showing no sign of regret nor of stopping.

“Sarge is going to kill me.” Kent couldn’t quite keep the glow out of his voice, even while voicing his worries. The worry was less of a question, more of a statement. He thought about the consequences to Miles discovering they’d shared intimacies like this while holding his precious daughter and couldn’t keep the image of his gravestone out of his mind’s eye. “I can actually picture my funeral.”

Chandler felt his leg vibrate and his hand flinched from Kent’s hair as if burnt.“... I think my life just flashed before my eyes,” he agreed, slipping down from Kent’s face into his pocket, from where he retrieved his phone. “Speak of the devil,” he groaned, schooling his expression into some semblance of the responsible man he was seen as, as if Miles would be able to tell.

“Everything okay?” Miles asked, sounded distracted.

“Of course, everything is fine, Charlie’s just uh, calmed down.”

“Good good, we’re just getting the taxi now, be ‘round yours, maybe half an hour?”

“Perfect, safe journey.” No sooner had he said the words, Miles had hung up. “He sounded plastered.” Chandler dropped the phone onto the sofa. “We can probably expect another Charlie sometime soon,” he said, looking amused.

“We should probably uh…” Kent looked down at Charlie, then nodded his head at her cot. Chandler hummed his agreement, so they made a joint effort in laying her down as softly as possible, tucking her in. When they stood up, they both stood at a self-conscious distance from one another, Kent with his hands clasped behind his back and twiddling his thumbs, Chandler straight-backed and locking his fingers together at the front.

“So uhm.” Kent stalled, looking up from under his eyelashes. Sudden cheek bubbling confidence within him, he stood on his tiptoes and pecked a kiss on Chandler’s jaw, then another at the corner of his mouth. “I adore you too.”

\----

“You’d better not have done anything too raunchy around her,” was the first thing out of Miles’ mouth as the door was opened and the two severely blushing men tried not to look too guilty. They both shook their head, mouths tight-lipped, trying to contain their matching smiles. Miles rolled his eyes and snorted something about ‘young people these days’.

“Oh leave them alone, Ray.” Jude swatted her husband and gave them a congratulatory wink, the only one grinning openly. “You were no better at their age.” She looked between the two and calculated in her head. “I seem to believe you were married at dear Joseph’s age.” She nodded, self-righteous around the three spluttering men, and took the opportunity to ease her daughter out of Chandler’s arms. Charlie latched on instantly, clinging to her mum. “Come on, Ray, the taxi’s waiting, collect her things.”

Miles sighed, but though he acted the put upon husband, his smile was easy as he picked up the pre-packed bags waiting in the doorway. “Can we offer you a lift back home, Kent?” Miles asked, trying to look like he wasn’t a schoolboy asking a dirty question.

“Uhm, no, thank you, Sarge, I- uhm- well…” Kent’s blush returned with a vengeance and Chandler had the audacity to lean that little bit closer, hand touching the small of Kent’s back.

“You kids play nice, now,” Judy chuckled, pushing husband, child and bags out of Chandler’s house. “Thank you, Joseph. We couldn’t have trusted a better person.”

Chandler’s hand tightened around Kent’s waist, and as soon as the Miles’ had shut the doors of their taxi, he pulled Kent towards him. “You okay?” Kent asked, smiling into Chandler’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his neck. He felt Chandler nod, felt fingers in his hair.

“Thank you. For being here. For helping. I’ve really enjoyed your company.”

“I’m sure I can make my company a more regular occurrence,” Kent whispered, “If you’d like.”

“Oh god, yes,” Chandler barely managed to get out as he stroked Kent’s jaw with his thumb. He laughed, astounded he could be so lucky as to be here, and brought Kent towards him into a kiss.

\---

“Right you smarmy bastards.” Miles ordered Kent and Chandler to stand before him, arms crossed, inspecting them like they were in an identification line up. “Either of you know why Charlie’s new favourite insult is ‘big nose’?” The question had been unexpected, and Kent could only contain his laughter a little longer, but they both shook their heads, Kent trying to shoot imploring looks at Mansell to create a distraction, Chandler trying the same on Riley.

Miles edged closer, conspiratorially, and Kent bit his lip. “...Do you think my nose is uh... bigger than normal?” he asked, suddenly vulnerable, and that was it, Kent’s flood doors opened. His weekend had been an obscure, dream-like perfection, and he was riding on his high.  

“No, Sarge,” he relented. “You’re beautiful.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The “Joe” song was ‘The Introduction of the Litterbug’ [http://youtu.be/M68vWRIckbU] by Sam Stockman’s previous band, ‘The Circus Electric’.   
> The rest of the fic was written to his new band ‘COLOUR OF BONE’, aka the one featured in the show. [http://colourofbone.bandcamp.com/music]  
> I mean if you need more baby-talking Chandler in your life, I listened to Rupert Penry-Jones’ CBeebies Bedtime story on loop. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-RAsSalmnY&list=RDfTwRdxrYQ0I&index=19]


End file.
